Hand and Tool
by N.T. Embe
Summary: Everyone knows the Turks and Soldier don't get along well. Does that count for their leaders as well? Perhaps a little demonstration on the battlefield will prove it...or will it? - Dedicated to Spopococ, as a gift!


**Title:** Hand and Tool

**Rating:** PG

**Theme:** SMEX. –Beams!- Just kidding! It's '_A Connection_.' …but no really, there _will_ be smex. Not in this fic, but…eventually!

**Pairings/Characters:** Tseng and Sephiroth

**Word Count:** 3,846

**Summary:** Soldier versus Turks. Which side are you voting for?

**Time Period:** Several years prior to the beginning of FFVII. Also before BC. (Shhhh! I know Zack's age and familiarity with Seph is _all_ wrong! Leave me alone! I love inconsistency! …sometimes. –Insert cheesy grin-)

**Warnings:** Sephiroth, and Tseng. Dude. _Any_ fangirl can give you _plenty_ of reasons to be cautious about _that_ sex-tastic combination.

**Dedication:** To Spopococ, as promised and because your fanfiction is amongst the most engaging and _amazing_ I have read. Substance with pleasure! Your combinations are fan-TAST-ic! And your execution, near flawless! –Clapclapclap!- YAY APPLAUSE! _You!_ Readers! Go check out her stuff if you haven't already! It is LE SMEXZORZ. :D O yesscrumdiddlyuptionsums.

**Disclaimer:** Ohhh if you _only_ gave me these two, I would _blow…your…minds._

**A/N:** …I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay? xD? I have wanted to write as these two FOR. EV. ERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. Now you get ze smexbabies. Soon to be more! I _will_ write more! I cannot resist! Okay, freaking out done now~ P.S. This _is_ a serious fic. I just… I get excited. X3

**Song:** _Hip Hip Chin Chin (Yaziko Club Mix)_ by Brazilectro

. . . . . . .

**Note:** Edited recently to clean up some typoes. It's in good order now! Please read and enjoy!

. . . . . . .

He was young. Silver hair down to the middle of his back, his frame elegant and superior physically to that of any of the men he commanded. His face was blank, empty beyond the mundane instruction given here or there. The lack of interest outside duty was only made more pathetic by the void where life should be in the emerald eyes.

The Turk frowned, eyes darkening as he watched him. He was too _young_ for this.

From across the large room another set of short, crisp instructions was delivered. The men before their general shifted instantly. Smooth but not without anxiety, well-trained and capable but clearly not First Class. Worry and the hidden rush, fueled by the subtle piping of adrenaline made their expertise brittle to the trained eye. Made the young general's façade a torture to bear for the suited Wutain.

Breaking away from the coworker that spoke on, irritated but not fool enough to mention his frustration with the distracted Turk, Tseng stepped out upon the polished wooden floor, dismissing the other man's comments brusquely. His darkly shined shoes echoed unusually across the tightly fitted planks meant for training purposes and the soles of bare feet or the thick, pronged rubber of standard issue boots for the Soldier classes. It was a long walk, and as he went he unhooked his cufflinks and placed them away in his blazer pocket. Eyes turned on him. Murmurs began their steady rise and fall as men both under the order of instructors and there on their own time noted the presence of the Turk.

His nearing presence was ignored. Another set of commands given, this time firmer, confirmed that he was noticed as expected, but not genuinely welcome when roused eyes turned upon his. The Turk forced himself to hold back a wry smile. The General looked nearly suffocated. His eyelids lowered and he paused a handful of yards from the silver-haired Soldier.

"Take a break." The Turk lifted his hand, something thin and dark between his fingers. It flickered through the air suddenly, snatched out of it just as swiftly by the taller man. It was a small, opaquely lacquered blade. The general's brows ducked in faintly veiled irritation, though his eyes held onto those of the Turk, and under their natural intimidation, bewilderment stood watching. "They've learned all they need to know," the Turk concluded.

A gloved hand gently turned the blade over, and then over once more, eyes falling from the Turk at last to study the camouflaged weapon. A silence had fallen over the entire gymnasium except for a stray fast tempo song that came from someone's stereo. At last the fingers grasped the blade and the Soldier's arm rose, the small tool held out for the Turk to take.

Tseng, however, stepped back.

To the shock of most, the Turk turned and walked completely away from the General. It was not long before the thoughts of a snub were wiped out of the minds of the onlookers though, for the Wutain man soon shed his blazer. Stopping before a heavily locked armaments cabinet, he opened it and withdrew a sheathed blade, casting his jacket over the top of the door.

"Engage me."

He did not say 'humor me' as some might have expected. It was a peculiar way to ask for a match, and instantly grins or knowing smirks broke out amongst the onlookers. Very few disappeared as Tseng turned around to face the greatest Soldier amongst them, but they faltered as a softer voice broke through. "Dismissed." For the first time that day, the General seemed to break out of the dull mist that'd clung to him like a second skin, eyes alight as they maintained their gaze on the suited man.

At first the men under his drill hung around hesitantly, not knowing what to do. Not paying any mind to them, Sephiroth calmly lowered his head, the movement slight. With the invitation accepted, Tseng stepped forward at last, the long thin blade resting casually, comfortably in his hand. As the silver-haired man obligingly slipped out of the long leather jacket he had become known for, a white shirt beneath it, the Turk looked with mild curiosity across the room. "Turn it up," he invited to the male lounging by his stereo on the bleachers. "It sounds good."

Heads turned towards the man who blinked and did as he was told, long enough to miss the faint smirk that came across the Turk's lips. Similarly, the Second Class Soldiers under Sephiroth's order at last began to disperse, making room, as they saw it, for their superior and his next supposed victim.

The Masamune caught the light, the only sign of the space over which the man had moved before he was at the side of the Turk, naked blade to skin. A few hairs grazed by the fang fell severed to the floor. Silver eyes turned to meet unwavering, but searching emerald. "I could never match your speed in offense," Tseng said lowly. "And you far surpass me in strength, and in reflex." A soft sound came from the floor. Fully aware of the Turk's unsheathed blade against his stomach, the general's eyes slid from the Wutain's face to the sheath itself, tapped curtly against the ground.

"What is the purpose of this?" Sephiroth probed softly. His eyes slowly trailed back up the side of the Turk, vivid emerald locking with misty silver. The Turk's gaze remained steady in return, whatever fear or anxiety he might have had being hidden exceptionally well, or just nonexistent at all.

"If you didn't know the answer to that, would you have agreed to fight me?"

Suddenly the obsidian-haired Turk thrust the sheath in between the Masamune and his shoulder, blocking the massive blade effectively. The katana jumped in the Turk's hand simultaneously, the blunt edge suddenly facing forward. With similar swiftness, the general's blade twitched downwards, biting into the sheath that protected the Turk with ease while the Wutain's katana swerved upwards. As the force of the blade hit the Masamune in its high arc, it provided the slim breadth of space necessary as the mighty weapon lifted just slightly from the sheath. Aware of the uselessness of this tact, the General stepped forward, applying enough force down upon the Masamune as to make any many give under his strength. Not before, however, Tseng shifted the angle of the sheath. Now with the katana able to be used as some soft of defense against the incredible blade, it left the narrow line of space on the inside of the general's arm completely free to attack.

Sephiroth, however, recognized the Turk's intent in that moment.

It was a mutual realization. Tseng's eyes flickered up to the Soldier's. One fraction of a second later, the sheath was thrust, grazing voraciously along the inside of the silver-haired man's blade arm. Moves such as these, when executed precisely and with the intent to injure, destroyed nerves, muscle, and the entire function of a limb. In this case, the accuracy of the shot to the inner elbow would— Sephiroth turned sideways, arm retracting instinctively. The sheath dropped and slid across the floor, several yards out of reach. Simultaneously the Masamune tore along the narrow edge of the katana, forcing the Turk away, accentuated by the smooth step backwards taken by the General. The distance between them now spanned the length of the Masamune in the Soldier's hand.

The strength and balance to remain standing after a slash that abrupt from the silver-haired swordsman needed to be in perfect harmony within the victim. Leaning instinctively towards the Masamune and by placing most of his weight behind the katana, Tseng anticipated the reflex move of his opponent. In addition, while this tactic would still have sent many a man flying or at the very least knocked him off his feet, by spreading both legs further apart, one foot behind the other by several inches, he was able to distribute his weight enough so that that very thing would be avoided. His reward?

The subtle tremor to the Masamune as it was held in the general's injured arm.

Tseng's eyes gleamed a pallid white, locked with the rich green of Sephiroth's. Through their gaze, all that was needed was conveyed. Had Tseng not shown the general how adept and serious he was, the play would continue.

Sephiroth's grip shifted, reestablishing itself on the hilt of his great sword. Instantly Tseng broke to one side of his opponent. Rather than circling with him, Sephiroth came directly towards him. Lowering his arm to parry the inevitable meeting of two blades, Tseng spun lightly, continuing in the direction he had been attempting to circle around the general. His katana was kept constantly between himself and the Soldier. Anything less would pose potential risk of a month-long stay in the hospital, if not worse—something he could not allow in his line of work.

True, this was no fatal match. That had been decided since the moment Sephiroth had taken the crucial injury from the Turk. It was not life threatening. Nor would it even place Sephiroth inside the medical ward for more than a few hours. He continued to wield his magnificent blade as though no more than a cramp impaired its motions, rather than the cessation of all functions that a normal man would have experienced. Yet the importance remained within the honesty of their fight. Neither would kill, but to injure to destroy would be a necessary handicap for the Turk. Without it the challenge, the simple authenticity of engaging fully in the confrontation, would shrivel up. There would be no purpose, and nothing gained.

The Masamune tore vehemently at the katana's edge, the general readily angling himself to meet with the angle of the Turk's direction and run parallel him—his loss. An unexpected slip, as though the raven-haired man had lost his footing against the last blow. Instantly the evasive spin was broken out of, the Turk darting in the direction completely opposite of his supposed trajectory.

It came as a surprise solely due to two things. Whenever a target broke into a tight spin, usually it was made in the direction that they truly wanted to go in. Most commonly this tactic was used when shifting positions abruptly in an attempt to slip up a pursuer. It was evasive and more often brought about the intended result. In addition, to interrupt this maneuver mid-execution was risky and often led to fatal ends. Therefore to break the motion and head in the opposite direction, while in mid-step, brought about its success. The objective had never been to reach an unprotected side of his opponent, Sephiroth realized.

It had been to regain the sheath.

Tseng lifted the battered cover with the same fluidity as one would any kitchen utensil—long used to it. He had taken a step forward when the silver-haired Soldier's blade met with his, this time with enough force to push the Turk back a considerable distance. Another blow followed this one, and then another. Each was progressively less powerful, slower. It did not escape the Turk's notice that the way Sephiroth wielded his frightening blade was more guarded. His arms and Masamune were held in a position that continuously minimized the chances that a move, such as the one before, could successfully break through his guard. Making gliding leaps sideways, paired with steps backward and forward as needed in a defensive-offensive couplet, Tseng wove an intense and progressively complex pattern with the General mirroring, learning steadily the motions of the indelible Turk. The sheath Tseng had retrieved provided another weapon with which to compound his tactics. Strikes became deceptive. Frontal or sidelong, the attacks were never as straightforward as they seemed, and on a couple of occasions the only thing that stopped blade or sheath from reaching the Soldier First were his superior reflexes.

How the battle remained balanced stood stark before every onlooker. Though gleaming lines of sweat bordered the Turk's forehead and neck, and his breath came quickly, the skills and tactics he executed were either masterful or of his own creation. Deceptive moves became traps, assault masqueraded as evasion. Familiarity with the tactics of his opponent shone through with astonishing results. While the General remained as composed as before he'd accepted the tomfoolery match, in the face of the Turk's explicit competence, his defenses rose and remained his concentration.

Then the Masamune caught the katana belly-up, broke the composure of the Turk's face as it had stopped his attack. Tseng's eyes widened momentarily, lips parting faintly in surprise. Silver eyes trained on lush green. Sephiroth's face remained poised.

Then…it was as though a mask fell away.

The blankness dropped to reveal gently uplifted silver brows. The eyes were wider as well, not to fully take in his surroundings, but to reveal for the first time…an openness. His mouth was no longer set in a stoic frown, but was bare, unadorned with preconceptions. 'Teach me.' He had been given something no one yet had dared or been able to provide for him. The world thought they knew all there was to know about the general of the Shin-Ra Electric Power Company. In this haphazard, abrupt exchange—he had learned something new. They would now know: he was _not_ perfect.

The Turk's mouth broke into a small smile. "Even you can improve more." Sephiroth inclined his head barely so only the other could see. Swiftly it had become not about the victory. The challenge escalated to a peak as subtly overwhelming as the exhilaration piping through a hidden undercurrent they alone could feel. The Soldier was unable to ignore the prominence of his rushing blood. Tseng broke the blade free, closing the distance between them with the intent to ravenously injure. Sephiroth could barely reposition himself to parry; doubled the threat to himself by challenging the assault with one of his own. The slower pace they had clung to steadily before reversed and turned in upon itself. Each assault and parry, step and block was met swifter and louder. Metals clashed viciously against each other, clangs ricocheting throughout the room only to be broken by screeches as singing blades took blazing bites out of each other's edges. Risk escalated as the men forsook elusion for offense, trying not to decimate but to outmaneuver the other.

Here they fought, and abandoned reputation for a chance at the new. Tseng knew Sephiroth could easily _destroy_ him in battle, in every sense of the word. With the speed and strength at his disposal, it took one move—two at most—to completely incapacitate even the most skilled of opponents. The Turk would have had little chance for life, let alone victory, had the General fought within his true capabilities. Yet Sephiroth had toned his own abilities down to allow the man a chance. He had felt it. Became curious. Took the Turk's invitations at far more than face value and saw a glimmer of what lay cloaked beneath the surface of another arrogant encounter.

This was the reason they were separate divisions. Soldier and Turks. Their combination became electric, unstoppable for all the neutralizers in place. Fires were sparked, earth shattered by their lightning. They were not allowed to mingle, hatred and rivalry nourished at every chance, for the very reason now the General and Turks' next-in-line had discovered. Blades met not in war or competition but an intense desire to push the limits of the other—to force them over the edge and reach the euphoria upon the peaks of adrenaline and challenge!

Their superiors would have a field day when the news of this met their ears. The hand and tool were never to interact in this manner. Their purposes were to be determined by Shin-Ra and Shin-Ra alone. While a semblance of free will was allowed them, each was kept upon a leash more real than their own lives. They were objects, persons designed to fit a role as cleverly crafted as it was tightly bound. Differentiation was eliminated, or the model that did not fit the mold was. Sephiroth was a weapon. Nothing more. The tool was for the use of those that gave it precise orders. It carried out those tasks flawlessly and always without question. To question was to lose the role of tool. That loss was unacceptable. By now, he should know it. Tseng was an option. No more again. The hand would execute the actions passed down to it by those hands less capable and skilled, but plenty more dangerous to him than the objectives he accomplished for them. Failure to carry out the orders was the only problem. So long as the end was fulfilled, the method was dust under the rug. To fail was to speed the keen edge of termination.

They were in every way different, yet parallel lines ran through their lives. They looked upon one another and saw the distinction between hand and tool. Now, they cast that asunder. And became, once again, men. To this their echoes of blade-song and the abrupt, erratic rhythm of one clash after another became their central focus—a miracle reached that left a satisfaction in each of their faces that radiated as pleasure and fierce veracity. So ingrained were they that neither noticed or cared when another group of Soldier entered the huge room.

Zack Fair, however, _did_ notice the stars of the scene…aaaand wasted absolutely no time in grabbing the nearest Soldier Third present by the shoulders and shoving his face in the innocent trooper's. "Just WHAT in all of Gaia is going ON here?" he demanded, a finger stabbing at the air in the battle's direction. The Third Class blinked rapidly and tried to salute while mouthing dumbly, awkward sounds coming from his mouth as he desperately tried to regain use of his voice…and brain function. "Duhh, uh, uhmm… i-it's, it's a, uhmm, a uh, a battle between the General, sir, a-and a, uh, Turk, uh sir?"

"Naw, I couldn't _tell_," Zack said and face-palmed. He pursed his lips together, pulling back, and crossed his arms, looking at the battlefield. "What I mean, bud," he said in a lighter tone of voice, "is how did this all start? And how long have they been going at it, anyway?" he added as an afterthought. The Third seemed to regain his composure a little more now that his superior had calmed after the initial shock. "The guy just walked up and told the General what to do, then got a sword and tried to fight him. As for uh, how long they've been fighting, sir? It's probably a little under half an hour now, I think…," his voice dwindled to the point of almost disappearing completely as the spiky-haired man turned a dumbfounded face on him. But the blue-eyed Soldier turned away from the Third Class with only a low whistle. The Third, encouraged by this reaction, hesitantly spoke up again. "Uh, uhmm, sir? Shouldn't the General have wiped the floor with the Suit by now?" Though the black-haired man turned his head faintly towards the Third Class, acknowledging his question, he kept his vivid blue eyes on the battle before them. "He could have," he said, more to himself than the other Soldier. "He just chose not to," he said even lower, eyes following the two combatants constantly. "Why though, is Sephiroth's secret to keep."

There was a sudden stalemate, the Masamune knit in a twin hold between the katana and sheath, blocking any attack and any attempt to pull away. The male with black hair held the eyes of his taller opponent and silently raised his eyebrows. "Would you object to my thanks and quietly stepping out of this match?" Tseng asked, voice surprisingly even. His body trembled perceptively and he had perspired through his shirt around the neckline and back most profusely. His breathing was heavy if once more astonishingly composed, but his eyes remained as alive as they had grown during the battle.

"I do object," the Soldier replied calmly. The Turk's eyes narrowed very slightly. Faintly the Masamune ground against the katana held steady by the Turk's hand. "The thanks are mine to give." Sephiroth's stance relaxed perceptively. "The rest I have no issue with." Another rare smile came to the Turk's face, brows falling with an openly curious study of the man before him. With a hushed trill of metal and material against the Masamune, Tseng freed the massive blade from the hold he had caught it in, both weapon and case falling to his sides. In silent thanks, the young General took a step backwards. Lowering his head subtly, the Turk sheathed his appropriated blade and then raised his eyes once more to those of fertile green. "You are welcome, Sephiroth," Tseng said, intoning the 'are' heavily to show his sincerity.

"I will hold you to that, then, Tseng," Sephiroth replied, a murmured rumor of humor in his voice. The Turk quirked a brow though his face was pleased, and began to turn away. He raised the sheathed blade in an accepting gesture. "I hope you will." They separated, Tseng moving to retrieve his blazer and to return the sword that had received a plentiful workout while Sephiroth walked the shorter distance to where he had discarded his own leather jacket. As they did this, the awe or fear that had alike kept the onlookers back now broke. They spilled onto the floor and returned to their various areas or met with buddies to talk about what had just happened, many studying either or both of the men that paid no mind to either the crowd or one another now. Zack had just made it to the General's side and opened his mouth with no better intention than to pry before a voice cut through the air.

"Sephiroth!" Eyes turned once again to the familiar intruder on their territory, preceding Sephiroth's own returning attention to the Turk by mere seconds. Tseng stood near the armaments cabinet, and to the casual onlookers, his entire demeanor was now as cold as it had been aflame during battle. Sephiroth however, did not miss the faintly upturned corners of his mouth or the lightly lowered eyelids. "You should test them on what they learned from that presentation."

As mild outcries rose and half the others gawked overtly at the Turk—Zack being one of those gawking of course—Tseng turned away and walked with a purposed, even step out of the training facility. When Zack looked back to Sephiroth, a comment ready to shoot off his tongue, he suddenly choked on it and did a double-take. Sephiroth stood there smiling elusively, eyes on where the Turk had disappeared.

"Oh mother-flippin' dolphin-lovin' Shiva drippings," Zack groaned and threw an arm around the General's shoulders, bending over as far as he could in that position and hanging his head. "You're going to LISTEN to him AREN'T you?"


End file.
